Years ago, a parishioner once said to me, “Life is hard. Church shouldn’t be hard. Church should be the easiest thing I do all week.”
I’ve carried that sentence with me for a long time. I remember pushing back gently in the moment, pointing toward the Gospels—toward Jesus’ own words: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Even then, I knew the tension embedded in that exchange wasn’t going away. It still hasn’t.
As we prepare to enter Lent—especially in a season that is profoundly hard for so many of our siblings in our own communities, in our wounded nation, and across the world—I am more convinced than ever that this is not the time for an easy church. This is the time for a faithful one.
This is the moment for the church to take up its cross and move intentionally into the hard places—into spaces where the gospel has been distorted by Christian nationalism and reshaped to serve domination, fear, and power rather than love, justice, and liberation.
The Jesus we follow was never a populist leader. He did not mirror the prejudices of the crowd or sanctify their desire for control. He did not bless a golden idol fashioned in their own image. Jesus understood—deeply and bodily—the cost of solidarity with those crushed by the state, those living in constant fear for their lives and the lives of their neighbors. That path led him not to safety, but to a cross.
So yes—to my friend from years ago—I would say again: church is hard. But I would add this with even greater conviction now: we do not walk it alone.
This is for my friends in ministry who are exhausted.
For my clergy colleagues who wake up already tired, carrying stress and burnout that no sabbatical alone can heal.
While I serve a radically inclusive, justice-seeking congregation, I know many of you are serving in churches where the line you must walk is razor-thin. Churches where honesty feels dangerous. Where one sermon, one prayer, one pastoral word could fracture fragile unity or threaten already-precarious giving. Churches shaped by privilege, where justice is tolerated only as long as it remains abstract and never personal.
Speaking truth to power is not just stressful—it can be terrifying. It is hard to proclaim justice to those who fund the institution while resisting the very solidarity the gospel demands. It is hard to preach good news that sounds like bad news to people invested in maintaining the status quo.
To you, my colleagues: I see you.
And even in churches that name justice loudly and clearly, we feel it too. We try to speak to one unfolding injustice, only to have another erupt before the sermon manuscript is finished. Each new day seems to bring fresh harm—policies and rhetoric that target our Black and brown siblings, women, LGBTQ+ people—all in service of preserving power for a privileged few.
And still, friends, this is not a betrayal of our calling. It is our calling.
The call of Christ was never an invitation to ease or comfort. As the old song says, “I never promised you a rose garden.”A friend once summed it up bluntly during a particularly brutal season: “Ministry sucks.” Some days, that feels painfully accurate.
The call of Christ comes with a cost—made heavier when the church becomes dependent on those whose participation and generosity arrive with conditions attached.
And yet.
Yes, church is hard. But we do not walk it alone.
The good news—the kind that actually sustains us—is this: the same Jesus who compels us toward solidarity with those pushed to the margins is the Jesus who first chose solidarity with us. This is the mystery of the incarnation. Emmanuel. God with us. Not God above us. Not God protected from us. God with us.
As we enter Lent—a season in which Jesus moves deliberately toward the center of religious and political power, knowing full well it will cost him his life—my prayer is that you will experience the presence of God sustaining you in this work.
There will be days when ministry feels unbearable. But may we remember to look up and see one another. May we take courage in the great cloud of witnesses surrounding us—those who have gone before and those walking beside us now.
Our task is not popularity.
Our task is not comfort.
Our task is not survival at all costs.
Our task is to birth the kingdom of God—again and again—until it finally becomes the kin-dom of God.
And friends, we do not do that alone.
Reflections on Grace 